


Mystery at McDuck Manor

by cresselia8themoon



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Gen, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-27 18:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12086565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresselia8themoon/pseuds/cresselia8themoon
Summary: A mysterious thief has stolen a painting from McDuck Manor, and it's up to Darkwing Duck to solve the case.





	1. The Scene of the Crime

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a huge change from my usual writing style. I thought I’d mix it up and have a little fun.

Tonight I venture out of my home turf and into the unknown, trailing the path of crime wherever it may lead. I find myself standing in front of the imposing gates of McDuck Manor, an ominous creak sounding from the rusted bars. I was requested most highly by a certain…DWDbiggestfan1991 on an Internet forum to solve a matter of utmost pressing concern to his boss. 

The message is highly classified information, which I will not disclose to my narration lest the night wind carries it to eavesdropping ears. 

As I survey the grounds with a keen eye, I spy a dark figure sneaking out the front door with a square object tucked under his left arm. He rounds the corner and breaks into a run. 

I follow him to the back side of the property, where a tiny, damaged houseboat stays afloat in a pool. Judging from the blackened edges of several planks, it was safe to assume the engine had been hotwired. 

Obviously the figure couldn’t be seeking to escape, so perhaps he was seeking something of value. 

The figure dashes into the boat, tossing assorted knickknacks around as he searches for that unknown object. The time has come for my dramatic-and dare I say-daring entrance. 

“I am the terror who flaps in the night!” 

“Where’s all that smoke coming from? Show yourself!” The other duck demands in a near-unintelligible voice. Boy, he should really consider speech therapy. 

“I am the miscalculation which costs you millions of dough! I am…DARKWING-YIPE!” I duck a thrown snow globe, the glass shattering on the wall behind me. “What was that for?” 

The other duck balls his fists. “You barge into my home and expect a warm welcome from me? Well, you’ve got another thing coming, pal!” 

“And you expect an explanation from me when you rudely interrupted my introduction?” I say. “Now, explain what you plan on doing in this destroyed dump.”

“GET OUT OF MY HOME!” The duck screeches, leaping towards me. 

My honed senses enable me to expertly evade his enraged attack, and I point my trusty gas gun at his bill. “Yep, yep, yep,” I say. “Now will you be good and tell me what purpose you had for sneaking into a houseboat at 10:37 at night? Nothing good ever comes out of tiptoeing around.” 

Before he could reply, something whizzes by my head, knocking the gas gun out of my hand. When I look back, a cane had embedded itself into the panels, my gas gun hanging from the end by its handle. 

“Who are you and why are you attackin’ my nephew?” An old duck barks in a most peculiar accent. He stands on the edge of the boat, glaring at both of us with more rage than I would have thought was possible for an old geezer. “Curse me kilts, Donald! I turn my back for two minutes and ya already land yourself in trouble.” 

“Oh, for crying out loud, Uncle Scrooge,” Donald mutters. “I was only putting away a photo album.”

“Ah, so you must be DWDbiggestfan1991′s boss,” I say. “Scrooge McDuck, an honor to meet you. I am the caped crusader, he who flaps in the night, Darkwing Duck. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, what seems to be troubling you?” 

Scrooge storms over to the planks, pulling his cane out of the wall and letting the gas gun clatter to the floor. “You have ten seconds to take your fancy gadgetry and theatrics off my property,” he growls. “As for you Donald, couldn’t this have waited til morning?” 

Suddenly a large, rather dopey fellow rushes on board. “Darkwing Duck! You’re here! You’re actually here!” 

I fold my arms. “What kind of a hero would I be if I didn’t answer the calls of a needy populace in an orderly fashion?” 

He picks me up and crushes me in a giant hug. My lungs are on fire and I savor all the precious air I possibly can. One time the malicious miscreant Megavolt mangled the circuits of St. Canard’s power grid for his own nefarious purposes. Being tangled in his wires was preferable to this behemoth’s death hug. 

“So….” I gag. “Are you DWDbiggestfan1991 by…oof my organs…any chance?” 

He finally lets go, and I wheeze for breath. 

“That’s me! Launchpad McQuack, mind getting me an autograph?” 

Well, it would be rather rude of me to refuse. I sign his hat with a black sharpie. I even leave him a smiley face. 

“I’m never washing this baby again!” he exclaims. 

“Launchpad, may we talk for a moment?” Scrooge says in a dangerously calm voice. He pulls him to the side of the boat. I’m left with Donald, who glares at me. 

Well, it was certainly nice to know one duck in McDuck Manor had manners. 

“When I said you could bring someone who would help us figure out where the painting went, I did not mean use the Internet to hire A MASKED CLOWN!” 

“If I said he didn’t demand payment, would you be a little more welcoming?” 

“Why do I even-wait a moment, Launchpad. Did you say he doesn’t demand payment?” 

I clear my throat. “That’s correct. I do not accept payment for my services. Though a bit of gratitude would be nice.” 

Scrooge sighs, shaking his head. “I’m goin’ to regret this later. But as long as you work for free, I suppose there’s no other choice. Follow me to the garage. And don’t touch anything!”

Now I see why some call him the cheapest duck in the world.

But if he would kindly stop calling me a masked clown, that would be much appreciated. 

I stay behind him as I keenly take in all the details of dusty old relics that have fallen prey to neglect over the years. Strangely, there were green post it notes on some of the objects. I rip one off as we pass by a podium. 

I stow it in my pocket so I can examine in a better lit area. It could be a very important clue. 

“This is where I kept the painting,” Scrooge says, stopping in front of a stack of crates. “It has a picture of a pirate ship, and there’s a tear in the upper left corner.”

I thoroughly scour the area for clues with my magnifying glass. There was a faded rectangular area free of dust where the painting once sat, as well as several light footprints that led into the interior of the manor. 

“It appears that the perpetrator has made their way into your mansion,” I explain. “And I found these green post it notes right by the scene of the crime! Whoever pilfered the painting did a poor job of covering their tracks. Mr. McDuck, if you would please gather all the occupants of your estate so we can figure this out quickly.” 

“Wait, Uncle Scrooge!” Donald yells. “The boys are asleep!” 

“Nonsense, Donald,” Scrooge says with a dismissive wave. “Nobody is sleepin’ tonight until we figure out who stole that painting. I’ll wake up Webby and Beakley. Grab the boys and bring them down to the parlor. Launchpad, help this clown search downstairs.”

Lightpack salutes, his entire body stiff. “Aye, aye, Mr. McDee! Er, or was it sir, yes sir?” Scrooge taps him with his cane, and the larger duck falls to the ground, almost squashing Donald under his weight. 

The Darkwing does not have a need for a partner. I work alone! I have done everything by myself for years, and I most certainly have no need for a dopey duck who looks as though he can’t tell a triangle from the square root of 254. 

However, I feel generous today. “Come along, Lunchbox,” I say in an authoritative, heroic voice. “Let us begin our search…” I pause for dramatic effect as I figure out where to begin. “…in the lobby!” 

“Cool! Mind if I show you where I crashed the limo one time? Mr. McDee’s face turned this funny shade of red after I did that!” he exclaimed. 

“Later. Duty calls,” I reply. 

I poke my head into the empty fireplace. “Find anything?” Limbobar calls. 

“Nope!” I cough. “Nothing but…ack…soot and brick! They did not use the chimney for this.” 

“Well, geez, I wouldn’t really expect Santa Claus to be the stealing type.”

Before I could yell at him for that remark, I bang my head against the brick as I crawl out. My suit is covered in ash, so I dust it off, coughing the entire time. 

Hope Scrooge McDuck didn’t mind a little ash on his nice looking rug. 

Next I continue my search into the kitchen, looking underneath the sliver platters for a crumb, a wrapper, or any piece of food that the thief might have eaten while committing this heinous heist. 

Another valiant effort, wasted. 

“Letterpen, we shall now head to the parlor.” I must carefully construct my statements so that nobody is aware that my search has so far yielded nothing. “I have allowed a sufficient amount of time to pass for everyone to be brought to order.”

“Okay, DW!” he nods. “Check this out!” He holds out a pair of aviator goggles in his palms. “Found it by the front door. I’m always misplacing my stuff. Lucky this was in an obvious spot.”

“Let me see that,” I say, examining the material under a magnifying glass. “Hmm…bought from somewhere exotic it appears. I will be holding these goggles as possible evidence.”

Lechepond shrugs. “Maybe one of the kids lost it. That Webby is always sneaking up on the boys with dart guns.” 

At this point I was getting bored out of my mind with the speculation. “That’s quite enough. Darkwing Duck shall begin questioning in the parlor momentarily. Who is the thief? Did they know each other previously? Why would the thief choose a painting and not the money?” 

“Is it my turn to ask a question?” Lumberpack asks. 

“Make it quick,” I mutter. 

He nods eagerly. “Why are you asking all these questions out loud?” 

“For the drama! What kind of superhero would I be without a few cliffhangers?” I protest. 

I’m sure it will be a long night.


	2. Interrogation

To recap for the absentminded, I, the do-gooder Darkwing Duck, have been called out of my territory to investigate the theft of a painting at the McDuck Manor. I am currently holding a green post-it note and a pair of goggles as evidence. It will take wits, skill, and a little help from Starducks’ Triple Chocolate Mocha with three extra shots of espresso to close this case. I pace in front of all the occupants as I contemplate the best course of action....

“Would you get on with it already?” Donald snaps. “The boys are going to keel over any second now!”

Only the green one seems remotely close to falling asleep. The other two appear extra happy at staying up past their bedtime. 

“Fine, fine. People just don’t appreciate a good expository monologue these days,” I grumble. “Now, where did you last see the painting?” 

“It was in the garage,” Scrooge replies, pacing back and forth. At this rate he would wear out the carpet within the next hour. 

“And you are absolutely certain that you didn’t move it elsewhere and forget?” I ask. 

That mere slip of the tongue earns me a jab to the jaw with his cane. “I may be old, but my memory is sharper than a dozen African elephants,” he snaps. 

If he disfigures my rather prominent and dashing bill, I’ll be sure to send him the medical costs. 

“Noted,” I say, backing up. “Now, I shall have to question the children. With their valuable information, I can catch our suspect red handed!”

“I get to help in an investigation? So cool!” The little girl exclaims. 

An elderly woman glares at me. “Questions only. They will not be helping you catch the thief if they’re still skulking around.” 

I nod. As a general rule, I don’t care for tact. But if the woman in question looks like she could squish me into a ball with her thumb, then perhaps a bit of tact is in order. 

Or a lot. 

“I don’t like this. He’s accusing my boys,” Donald mutters. “Nobody accuses my boys.” 

“Get it over with already. Just answer the best you can,” Scrooge sighs. 

I clap my hands. “Great! Do I have any volunteers?” 

No response. Huh. You’d think children would be happy to spend a little time with the daring and dangerously handsome Darkwing Duck. 

* * *

 

I am  cuurently in the kitchen area with the red triplet. He watches me as I sharpen my pencil in preparation for note taking, eagerly awaiting the moment I drop my guard so he can gather reinforcements and overpower my otherwise indomitable will....

“Is Huey Duck your full legal name?” I ask. 

“Well, as far as I know it’s spelled Hubert on my birth certificate,” Huey replies, scratching his head. “I can pull up the document for you if you’d like. The Junior Woodchuck guidebook states that it’s important to at least have two forms of official documentation at all times.”

Oh, he’s a Junior Woodchuck. I assume he knows how to tie knots, set traps, and make friendship bracelets out of paperclips and bubblegum. He could very well be a crafty individual....

I shall proceed with caution. 

“Where were you at the time of the theft?” I ask. 

Huey thinks, scratching his chin as he comes up with his carefully crafted answer designed to cover up his involvement. “Webby was showing us the proper way to slide down the banister of the stairs. Please don’t tell Uncle Donald we were doing something that could’ve resulted in a broken arm if done incorrectly.”

“HUEY! YOU AND YOUR BROTHERS WERE DOING WHAT?” A raspy snarl sounds from behind me. Huey flinches and laughs nervously. 

I tap my foot to get Donald’s attention. “Excuse me, good sir. I was in the middle of a very important matter. Away with you, and I’ll fill you in on the results when my interrogation is complete.”

“Interrogation, my tailfeathers!” For the sensitive eyes of any youngsters viewing this file, I shall not record the resulting tirade of quacks, swearing, and onomatopoeia that occur when two angry ducks duke it out on a stress-filled night. 

(The following is an afterward for my archives at the tower. Let this be a lesson to myself: Make sure prying, short tempered uncles cannot eavesdrop on any future interrogations.)

I humbly apologize to Scrooge McDuck and I have purchased a new pressure cooker that I will send off tomorrow to get his lawyer to stop staking out on the walkway of the Audubon Bay Bridge. How does he even know where my lair is? 

Enclosed in the package is an photograph of me posing heroically in front of a defeated Steelbeak. I even perfected my signature for the occasion! It’s a loopy cursive style, my preferred choice of penmanship, by the way.)

Huey Duck admits to being in the same vicinity as the aviator goggles. This is a most peculiar development. 

I shall now proceed to the blue triplet. 

After I drag myself to the nearest pharmacy for some painkillers....

* * *

 

There is now a screen set up by yours truly that separates the kitchen and parlor to prevent Donald from interrupting my investigation with his irate inanities. 

The blue triplet grabs a handful of cookies for a midnight snack. A rebel I presume. 

“So do you have a secret identity and stuff?” he asks through a beakful of crumbs. “Maybe I should adopt one myself. But until then, I’m just plain ol’ Dewey.”

I keep my distance so the crumbs don’t hit my newly ironed cape. “A secret identity?” I laugh. “Crimefighting is a 24/7 job, kid. I don’t need one as long as there are criminals to bust.” 

“I’ve seen my Uncle Scrooge turn a dragon to stone,” Dewey says, leaning casually on the back of his chair. “I bet you can’t turn a dragon to stone.”

“Hah! I don’t need to!” I growl. Is he challenging my abilities as a vigilante? Well, he had another coming! “I defeated Eggmen with nothing but sunflower oil and a vase! I bested the likes of St. Canard’s thieves, litterbugs, and supervillains time and time again! Can your uncle do that, kid?”

Dewey yawns. “Sure he can.”

I decided to change the subject before my pride as a hero gets dragged through the mud, run over by a dump truck, and thrown into Davy Jones’ Locker. 

“What were you doing the night of the theft?” I ask. 

“Wait, is this an interrogation?” Dewey looks around, flipping the tablecloth as he looks underneath it for something.

How unusual. 

Some might call it suspicious. 

“Where are the lights? Did you bug the room?” Dewey asks. “This can’t be an interrogation if I’m not tied to a chair! Oh, maybe I could do the James Pond thing and escape with a laser ballpoint pen! Do you have one of those?” 

“Answer the question,” I say, waiting for a response. “Your uncle will tar and feather me if I tie you up.”

Dewey blinks. “Fine. We were sliding down the banister.”

So the story checks out then. “Anything else?” I ask. 

“It was pretty funny when Louie went down the banister just as this strangely shaped trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs. He thought it was Uncle Donald in disguise,” Dewey snickers.

A strangely shaped trenchcoat? Now we’re getting somewhere. 

“And did you see who was in the trenchcoat?” I ask, clicking my pen as I jot down all the new information. “Or their height? Distinguishing characteristics?” 

Dewey shakes his head. “Um, it was kinda long. It was a really big trenchcoat, but whoever was inside it was definitely about average size since we never saw their face.” 

“And does this look familiar to you?” I hold out the aviator goggles. 

He nods. “That fell out from underneath the trenchcoat when they fell down the stairs.” 

“I see. Well, that concludes this round of questioning. Your contribution is much appreciated,” I say proudly. 

Dewey huffs. “Uncle Scrooge can burrow through gold like a gopher. Bet you can’t do that.”

I take back what I said about appreciating his contribution. 

* * *

 

There’s something shifty about the green one. It must lie in how his hands remain in his pockets as he slumps against the chair. Or how he yawns every few seconds without expressing any strong emotion. Or the half-lidded gaze he gives me when my cape flutters. 

“And you are?” I ask. 

“Louie. Hey,” he says, as if I was nothing more than his bestie. 

“Louie. Do you know what this is?” I dump a crumpled green post it in front of him. 

“It’s a post it,” he says. 

I must resist the urge to slap my forehead. “I know it’s a post it.”

Louie shrugs. “So why were you asking me then? I mean, I guess you’re old and stuff, not as old as Uncle Scrooge but still a lot older than me.”

He did not just call me a senile senior citizen who slowly walks down the hallway of an assisted care center with a walker and spends the rest of his days playing bingo and gin. 

I mean, my feathers aren’t turning gray or anything! I’m not that old!

“Look, kid. I’ll let bygones be bygones. Now, tell me what the post it note was doing near the painting.”

Louie scoffs, folding his arms. “I just put the post its on cool stuff I want to inherit when I’m older. I put them there a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the theft.”

A red herring. Or a green herring in this case. Seems plausible enough. 

“One more question before I let you go,” I say. “Did you happen to see who was in the trenchcoat?” 

He shakes his head. “I was kinda more focused on getting back at Dewey for laughing at me when I fell off the banister.”

I sigh. “Fine. Thanks for your help.”

A gas gun falls out of his hoodie. 

“Hehe. I thought it needed a little cleaning. There’s a bit of dust on the barrel,” Louie chuckles. 

A hero’s intuition is never wrong. I was right to suspect he was up to no good!

* * *

 

“Oh my gosh an actual investigation!” the girl shrieks. She stands on the table in an action pose. I have to admit, she doesn’t look half bad. “And I get to help! I’ve never done this thing before! Can I be your sidekick? Temporary sidekick? I’ll organize any files you have! I’m the best when it comes to organizing!” 

“Sorry,” I say. “Darkwing Duck is a loner who bravely champions the moonless nights, weathers through the thunderstorms, and stalks prey with hardly a sound. A tag-along would only slow me down.” 

She nods, only looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m Webby, for future reference. So, anything I can help you with then? I mean, there’s got to be something, right?” 

“What happened after whoever was in the trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs?” I ask. 

“They opened the front door and ran outside,” Webby replies. 

Eureka! Then they stole the painting! 

“Thanks, kid!” I exclaim. “Now, let us reconvene at the parlor to catch ourselves a thief! But first, you want a picture together? I’m trying to reach out to a younger audience here. It’ll help for marketing in the future.”

She grins. 

How Webby hid a selfie stick on her person, I will never figure out. 

* * *

 

“I’m done with my questions!” I say, waiting for the onslaught of questions and shouts from my enraptured audience. 

Ahem. 

“And?” Scrooge taps his foot impatiently. 

“From these questions, I have concluded that the thief came in through the upstairs. They would’ve put the trenchcoat on after they entered the manor, though I don’t know why they took the roundabout way instead of just directly heading for the garage. From there, they tumbled down the stairs and made a beeline for the garage, where they stole the painting.”

Donald huffs. “Perfect. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already. Kids, go back to bed. I don’t want you being all cranky in the morning.” 

They groan and protest, begging for a chance to capture the thief. 

“Please! I’ll donate a kidney if you’d let me!”

“No one steals from us! We can catch them!”

“I know how to set traps! I just need a lot of rope and duct tape!” 

Scrooge taps his cane against the ground, and they instantly quiet down. “We’re dealing with someone who knows their way around the manor. They’ll be back soon enough. Now, I have a plan to catch them....”

As Scrooge announces his plan to reclaim the pilfered painting, I sit back to contemplate the events that transpired during the interrogation. 

And I have come to a single conclusion. 

I am never having kids. Not even if you bound and gagged me on an exploding motorcycle. 

Not now or ever. 

 


	3. Catching a Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're to our last chapter! Thanks for reading everybody!

Greetings, to my lovely audience. We have set up a stakeout after a long argument between Donald and Scrooge over involving the children in the plan. 

Given their tempers, I think it was best to sit and let the quarrel fizzle out on its own. I am not spending more on painkillers than I have to. 

The children have been given the tasks of handling the rope and keeping a lookout, but are under strict orders to not make physical contact with the thief. 

Another old painting is set out in the yard next to a large oak tree. Thanks to my superior trap-making knowledge and a little tip from the Junior Woodchuck guidebook, I have surrounded the painting with nets craftily designed to catch the perpetrator. 

Huey contributed to one, maybe two nets. I did most of the work. 

I use my binoculars to survey the empty road that leads up to the mansion. So far, nothing. The kids are perching on a low-hanging, sturdy branch, keeping a silent watch over the road. At Donald’s request, there are two air mattresses set below the branch in case any of them fall. 

Should Plan A fail, Donald and Scrooge are crouching in the bushes, ready to spring an ambush. A tad crude, but it gets the job done. 

And so we lie in wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

I sit on the roof of the manor with my binoculars, like a frightening stone gargoyle overlooking its great castle. A suitable location for this avian avenger, this masked mallard, this dashing daring-do drake....

I see activity from the tree, the kids flapping their arms as they holler about a mysterious figure approaching. Scrooge nods, raising a finger to his beak. The kids quiet instantly, careful not to rustle the leaves or branches. 

With my keen vision, I see a dark shadow following the path up to the manor. It stops every couple feet to adjust something in its grip. A weapon, perhaps? 

As they approach, I see the faint outline of a large trenchcoat. Strangely, the thief wears the trenchcoat so that their body is completely covered. Not even the head or feet protrude from the material. Despite that, they don’t trip or sway to one side. 

I climb down the roof and hide in the bushes with Scrooge and Donald. They’re tense, barely daring to breathe as the thief walks along the outside of the high, steel gates that surround the perimeter of the manor. 

However, they do not scale the gates with a rope or dig underneath like a canine. Instead, they put a hand out and feel the individual bars. The hand is covered by a black glove, the only part of the body that’s not shrouded by the coat. 

They stop at a bar three feet from the center of the gate, gently tugging it out of position and setting it down. Scrooge mutters to himself about reinforcing the gate later. 

Producing a rectangular package from the inside of the coat, they slip it through the bars and set it gently on the ground.

How considerate of them to put the bar back in place once they’re on our side of the grounds. They pick up the package and walk towards us. 

However, they don’t set off the traps. In fact, they take no interest in the bait whatsoever. 

Before I can give Donald and Scrooge the signal, they leap out of the bushes and attempt to hold the thief in place. Predictably, the thief struggles, dropping the package in the process as the fight continues. 

I snatch up the package to prevent damage to the evidence as they fight. Curious, I rip it open and reveal....

A painting. 

The stolen painting to be exact. 

I stand it up by the side of the manor so I can examine it thoroughly when I get some peace and quiet. Donald unleashes several angry quacks as he pummels the thief, but the coat’s material appears thick enough to absorb the blows. 

After a few minutes, Scrooge is kicked by a stray foot and skids a few feet away. Undeterred, he leaps back into the fray and tackles the thief. It was an impressive feat for an old-timer. The impact throws them directly on a net, which immediately snaps closed. 

The kids quickly climb down the tree, placing an air mattress under the net. The shock of being suddenly several feet in the air brings them out of the fight as the net stills. 

The thief remains silent, not having uttered a word the entire time. I shoot the rope with my gas gun to bring everyone down. 

Donald and Scrooge appear all right, standing up as soon as they’re free. The thief doesn’t move. 

“Now, we’ll see who the perpetrator who pilfered your painting really is,” I say, grabbing the collar of the trenchcoat and pulling down so it unravels around the thief’s head. 

A chorus of gasps ring out from the group. 

“And the thief is....” I turn triumphantly to the criminal in question, and I come to one extremely crucial realization. 

That I may have overlooked slightly. 

Emphasis on slightly. 

I have absolutely no idea who this female duck is. 

Scrooge and Donald gasp, their eyes wide. For a moment, they stand rigid as they take in the thief’s features. She resembles Donald, judging from the shape of her beak.  

So glad that I would never get that bamboozled at a female doppelganger. 

“DELLA!” They scream, wrapping her in a tight hug. Della laughs as she returns it. The kids look at them uncertainly. 

Dewey speaks up at last. “Mom? Is that really you?” 

Della beckons the boys over. “Course. Who else would I be? I really missed you boys. Get over here!”

The triplets squeeze into the family hug. Della ruffles their hair before glancing over at Webby, who stands a short distance away. Della moves closer to Donald to make room for her. 

Webby shifts and points at herself in confusion. The triplets shout at her to join in, and her beak splits into a wide smile as she eagerly jumps in as well. 

An unmistakable sniff comes from behind me. Lockpaddle blows his beak into a tissue. “I love these happy family reunions!” he wailed. He cries so much that the tissue is of little use, and makes a grab for my cape. 

Using my swift reflexes that I acquired after years of training in a temple of warrior monks, I evade him easily. “Hands off the cape,” I say. “I just ironed it.”

I turn to the large duckpile, which is packed tighter than a caravan of cavorting criminals. “Now that you’ve had your little reunion, I’d like an explanation for this crime you seem to have no qualms about committing.”

Donald growls. “Lay off! She just got back!” 

“I’m rather curious myself,” Scrooge says. “Why all this trouble with the painting, lassie?” 

Della shrugs. “Well, it took me about ten years to scavenge enough debris and rovers to build a rocket that would take me back to the earth from the moon after the Spear of Selene transported me there.”

I scoff. What a ludicrous statement. 

Scrooge glares at me. “Della has never been one to lie. Do you want the explanation or not?”

“I want one that makes sense,” I snap. 

Della smiles. “I guess it does sound kind of unbelievable. But at the same time, it would be boring to just walk up to the manor and tell everyone I was back. So I bought a trenchcoat and entered through a second story window. I was searching for Donald so I could scare him, but I guess I got a little too excited.”

Dewey cracks a grin. “And you surprised us when you tumbled down the stairs. You’re terrible at landing.” 

“You guys were champs at sliding down that banister,” Della says. 

Donald frowns. “I don’t want you kids to break something important. No more sliding down banisters!”

“Your Uncle Donald is just jealous. The one time he tried it as a kid, he wound up slamming headfirst into the front door,” Della says. 

Donald folds his arms. “Don’t give Louie any potential blackmail!”

Louie shrugs. That delinquent....

I clear my throat. “I take it these aviator goggles are yours?” I pull out the goggles, slightly cracked but still usable. “I discovered these next to the stairs.”

“My goggles!” Della exclaims. “I was wondering where I put these!” 

“Now, if you would kindly get to the part with the painting,” I say, tossing the goggles to her. 

Della nods. “Of course. So I dashed outside before the kids could reveal me and walked around the yard to the garage. Then I saw the painting with Uncle Scrooge, Uncle Donald, and me had a torn corner so I decided to present the fixed painting to them as a surprise.”

“Your surprise worked!” Webby exclaims. 

“By the way,” Della says, pulling away from Scrooge and Donald so she could stare them in the eye. “You two have been getting along, right?” 

Scrooge gulps. “Um, yes, we’ve been getting along very well! Haven’t we, Donald?”

“Yes! Course! What makes you think we wouldn’t?” Donald chuckles. 

Well, a superhero has better things to do than sit around and watch family drama patch up. I must take my leave, good citizens of Duckburg. 

I conclude my investigation of the missing painting with a few bruises, but Darkwing Duck always rises to the challenge! 

Until we meet again, my fellow ducks! 

 


End file.
